Citrus
by kooriblue
Summary: Sometimes, when you're torn between orders and soft words, you find yourself slipping to apathy and death isn't so frightening anymore. Killing Harry shouldn't be so hard for Draco, dying shouldn't be so hard for Harry. [Full summary inside. DMHP]
1. I

Title: "Citrus"  
Author: Kooriblue  
Aim:kooriblue  
Rating: PG13 (just barely)  
Category: ummm?   
Warning: HP/DM; Abused!Harry;  
Disclaimer: I own the characters (some of them), just not the names or the settings. MwaHahahaHA   
Author Notes: I know I can't write. Normally, I wouldn't even put such a horrific thing out there. It's all Jeffina's fault. Also, minor changes have been made since SiriousB1 pointed a few things out. Thanks for the review!  
Dedication: To Jeffina (more like From Jeffina, if that makes sense)  
Edit note: This has been posted before, Vladaia was picky and had it deleted so more stuff was added in. 

Summary: War has an ambience of desperation and helplessness. Sometimes, when you're torn between orders and soft words, you find yourself slipping to apathy and as the ground collapses, death isn't so frightening anymore. Killing Harry Potter shouldn't be so hard for Draco Malfoy. Dying shouldn't be so hard for Harry. In which Draco is 'self-preserving', Harry is jaded but clueless, and Pansy talks far too much.

* * *

Chapter One. (In which Draco sulks, Harry wonders, and everything is in present tense)

* * *

_The picture is far too big to look at kid,  
Your eyes won't open wide enough--  
And you are constantly surrounded by that swirling stream of what _is_ and what _was_,  
Well, we've all made our predictions but the truth still isn't out...  
So if you want to see the future, go stare into a cloud,  
And keep trying to find your way out of that maze of memories,  
It all sort of looks familiar, but then you get up close and it's different.  
_Clearly._  
Each time you turn a corner, you are right back to where you were,  
And your only hope is that forgetting might make a door appear... _

Is it your fear of being buried that makes you so afraid to speak? 

-Bright Eyes: The Big Picture

* * *

Someone is saying something to him. Probably Pansy. He doesn't take much notice.  
_Merlin, she could talk for hours. It's always about herself. Has she ever asked about the details in other people? Not once._   
That's not to say he would tell anyone much about himself. Especially not the letter he had received in the morning post, along with his Daily Profit. 

Still nodding at Pansy's insolent rambling (The Jones's were having a tea party, her grandmother was trying to sell a magical mirror, and, last Tuesday, she had bought a one-of-a-kind bathrobe) he studies the faces of his fellow seventh year Slytherins. He wonders how many of them know. He wonders if this is another one of Voldemort's elaborate plans (though it is quite simple when he thinks about it), or if it is just between Voldemort, Lucius, himself, and... _Harry Potter._

He wishes The Dark Lord would just give up on attempting to kill Potter; he had been failing at it for the last 17 years. His father seems to think this last plan was infallible. But he alone knows it is not going to work. He scribbles something on a scrap piece of paper and ties it to his owl's leg. He wishes he could rewind his life to this morning, before he had gotten the message. He wishes he could rewind his life to the beginning of sixth year, before he became a death eater. He wishes he could rewind his life to before he was born, and that his mother had married anyone but Lucius.

* * *

Hermoine is saying something to Ron. Dean is laughing at something Seamus said. Parvati and Lavendar are giggling. Neville is telling Luna about something. Is it Herbology? Harry doesn't know. Harry doesn't even know why she (a Ravenclaw) is at the Gryffindor table, but then, Luna always has been a loony one... Harry isn't listening to any of these things. He had just received a most peculiar letter. No one but Draco Malfoy had noticed an owl fly directly from the Slytherin table to the Gryffindors. Now, it sits on the edge of Harry's plate, bobbing its sleek, black head slightly from side to side, as if nervous about something. 

When Harry makes no action towards it, the owl pushes off Harry's plate and flaps away. The plate knocks against the hard wood of Gryffindor table, and Ron finally looks up. He sees the look on Harry's face, and asks Harry is he is okay and wants to know what Harry is looking at. Harry assures him that of course he is fine and at the moment he thinks he might have eaten too many blueberry pancakes. He thinks he'll go to the common room to rest a bit. Ron accepts this. Ron knows what it's like to eat too many blueberry pancakes. He smiles and turns back to Hermoine. Everything is under control. 

Harry gets up. Thoughts of going to the common room never once cross his mind as he heads to the Quidditch Pitch, not noticing a pair of eyes following him out. 

His thoughts turn back to the message the owl had brought. 

_Harry P., 

> Meet me in the Trophy Room at 11 tonight. Alone. Don't be Late.

_It isn't signed. Why would anyone send him an unsigned note, to meet them alone, on a completely insignificant night such as this? Harry wonders. Harry wonders some more. Harry wonders if he should tell Ron and Hermoine about it, and why he didn't when Ron had asked. 

_

> Alone.

_

Harry stops wondering. The only thing he knows is that he will be in the trophy room tonight, waiting.


	2. II

Title: "Citrus"  
Author: Kooriblue  
Aim:kooriblue  
Rating: PG13 (just barely)  
Category: ummm?  
Warning: HP/DM; Abused!Harry;  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all. Just keep the men in the white coats away. Author Notes: I know I can't write. Normally, I wouldn't even put such a horrific thing out there. It's all Jeffina's fault. Also, title has no relation to actual "lemon." Sorry. And DEID is "died" backwards. I feel stupid, is it an acronym or something?  
Dedication: To Jeffina

Summary: War has an ambience of desperation and helplessness. Sometimes, when you're torn between orders and soft words, you find yourself slipping to apathy and as the ground collapses, death isn't so frightening anymore. Killing Harry Potter shouldn't be so hard for Draco Malfoy. Dying shouldn't be so easy for Harry.

* * *

Chapter Two. (In which Draco's gone insane, Harry doesn't care, and everything is in present tense _again_)

* * *

It had been easy to leave the Gryffindor common room, Harry remembers, sitting on the dusty trophy room floor. He'd unburied the neglected invisibility cloak from the depths of his trunk - Didn't they used to have so much fun with that thing? But he hadn't needed it; Ron hadn't even been there - probably snogging Hermione in the Astronomy tower. And the rest of the boys' snores had all been accounted for.

Nevertheless, he is sitting here, cloak draped over his shoulders, and wondering when he will stop hearing the ... of the clock hung on the wall. It makes an odd noise, not the tick... tock, of a normal clock- more of a tick... tick... tick that is so constant it drives a person insane for want of variety. Pattern. The same pattern, Harry thinks, that drives a person insane for want of uniformity.

Harry tries to remember what Hermione had said about silence. How it made her feel calm and in tune with the world. Harry closes his eyes and tries to feel in tune with anything. All he can imagine is that somewhere, something, somebody, is bound to be making a riot. He sees screaming children jumping on a merry-go-round, each cycle creaking in tune to the ticking of the clock. Every other beat, geese are spewing their warbling calls. On the half beat, a dog is barking, a teapot is shrilling, waves are crashing upon rocks that have moss and mussels built up so much that he can't decipher if the rock was originally gray, or if it was red. Though maybe it was purple? 

_There is no such thing as silence._ If a deaf person is at a birthday party, in a room with noisemakers and streamers and screaming, singing people-he can't hear them. Does that make the room silent?

The noise is there; you just can't hear it. The silence is there; you just can't find it. 

The is getting louder and louder until the noise itself seems to put pressure on Harry's mind. Louder and louder until he wonders why half the school isn't waking up. But it doesn't desist, no, it defies the rules of language itself, ringing in Harry's ears. Then, abruptly, it stops. It stops because Harry can't hear it anymore- it's overlaid by a much louder sound- footsteps. The footsteps, so quiet, pattering down the corridor, are louder than the barely audible tick.. tick... tick, of the feeble clock.

The footsteps approach- they approach- every so silent. Ever so deafening.

The footsteps enter the room, and, curiously, bring a body with them. Tis the body of Draco Malfoy, who is looking around. The clock: 11:04. Malfoy's back slides down the wall, and his hands come up to his face with a single word- You're late.

At the sound of Harry's voice, Draco looks up. But no one is there. He looks to the door, nothing. Malfoy's aren't supposed to be late Malfoy's weight is on his feet again. He can pinpoint the exact location from which the voice emanates, but it consists of and is surrounded by nothing. He knows that the sound belongs to Potter. Malfoy's turning pale but Harry can't really tell the difference between pale Draco and regular Draco, who is pale anyway. The door is still open, and he peers round it into the corridor. The only thing there is a painting of a marsh; a heron's head is folded under its wing. He turns around- Harry is standing there, as solid and present as anyone would expect him to be, except Malfoy, who jumps a foot high.

Did I scare you? This rhetorical question is voiced from Harry's lips, but its real meaning is in his eyes. Malfoy doesn't know why people have such an annoying habit of doing that- asking useless questions. Potter should have just said, I scared you, the real meaning in his words- in his eyes.

Draco eyes the cloak lying on the floor. He makes the connections. Jesus, Potter- where did you get one of _those_?

Harry laughs. _Jesus?_ Do you even know who that is?Do I care?

Harry smiles, You wouldn't. He leans up against the door, closing it. Well, what?

Harry sighs, If I know anything about you, Malfoy, it's that you wouldn't set up a chit-chat with me in the middle of the night. It doesn't occur to Harry that maybe it wasn't a good idea to attend a secret rendezvous with Malfoy at midnight, while the rest of the castle is conveniently sleeping.

And why wouldn't I do _that_? He knows he wouldn't, he doesn't need an answer. Here is the difference between need and want, but not quite like you learn in economics class.

Because you're Draco Malfoy.. and I'm Harry Potter. This equivocal response ties all explanations together, so that the result is more descriptive than any description could ever hope to be.

Draco smirks. I hate you, He says simply. He watches Harry throw up his hands and say, If I'm not mistaken, we established that fact a _while_ ago. Try- A couple _years_...

Draco puts on a face of mock exasperation. I'm leading up to my _point_, Potter.What an opener! Bravo! but he resigns himself to listen.

I hate you, and you hate me, Draco says. Harry rolls his eyes. And I'm sure we can both agree, that there have been.. certain _times_... during which you might have felt the need to.. er, cause me bodily harm, Draco is picking his words carefully, watching Harry's reactions thoughtfully. The latter raises his eyebrows. Maybe sometimes go so far as to wish I had never been born, or something along those lines...Malfoy, are you trying to pin me with _Death threats_ or something? Cause if you are, I'll _kill_ you.Do you not take anything seriously, Potter? Malfoy placed both his hands on Harry's shoulders.

Harry looked down at one, then the other, shifting his feet. Umm... Why would I do_ that_?

"Why wouldn't you? Life is serious."

"If you say so, Malfoy."

"You cannot possibly tell me that you think life's a game?" His hands are still resting on Potter's shoulders, trying to absorb something, anything, from the other boy. _What is he thinking?_

"As soon as you're born you start dyin', so you might as well have a good time," Harry watches a bewildered Malfoy with a smirk, then wishes he would take his hands away. He cannot possibly understand.. he would never understand. His eyes are grey, but it's not the color that draws Harry's attention. He can see something there, but what is it? Something's there, underneath the splash of grey. He can't see it, but he knows it's there. How do you know? Can you feel the tug at the end of the rope? Can you believe? Is it about faith, now? Harry doesn't think so. "You know, Dudley would never play Monopoly with me, but I bet I suck at it."

"_Your_ life isn't a game, Harry."

"Are you- are you actually-" Harry steps away from the blonde, "There is no way you're Malfoy. Is it just me or did you.. what did you just say to me?"

"Harry, this isn't a game!"

"Aha! I knew it! Who has you under Imperious? Or is it Polyjuice? Who _are_ you?"

"Bloody hell, Potter, listen to me!"

"That's a bit better.."

"I'm not here to play around!" Malfoy's a little angry now, and he still has that thing in his eyes. Potter has never seen it there before...

"Oh really? 'Cause I am!" Harry has a moment of mock realization, "You mean this isn't the party I got invited to? Must've got the wrong note."

Malfoy lets out an exasperated sigh; his eyes shift to the floor. He's standing in a strange position, feet apart, his right hand clasping his wrist, and Harry can't figure out why. "Would you take things more seriously if you knew you're life is in danger as we speak?" Blonde hair had fallen over grey eyes, obscuring them. It's a bit eerie, but not enough to stop Harry from laughing.

He clutches his heart, "Is it Voldemort again? He takes things so personally! You know, that _one time_ I refused to meet him for tea, and he's been trying to kill me ever since!" Malfoy's eyes are shining in the dusty light, but not from elation. "Tell me, how's he planning on doing it this time?"

Malfoy puts his left foot forward, reaches inside his robes, pulls out his wand and levels it at Harry. He does this slowly, perhaps because he knows Harry can't run away, because he knows he'd be stubborn and try to fight, because he overestimated his own skills, but perhaps, perhaps he took his time because he knew all along..

"_You're_ going to kill me? You?" He pauses, "actually this makes a lot more sense than the last thing he tried." He stares at the tip of Malfoy's wand, is this it? Is this what dying feels like? Is this the last thing he's going to see?

"Are you _that willing_ to die, Potter?"

"As willing to die as to not. As willing as you are to do the deed." He's not scared. Or nervous, really. His thoughts resemble the word, "Finally."

"That's our problem, though, Potter. I'm not really. At all." The wand is no longer in front of Harry's eyes; it retreats back into the depth of Malfoy's black robes. Why is it that Malfoy's robes seem blacker than Harry's? Of darker shade, but purer in colour.

Blonde hair jumps away from grey eyes, touches the tip of Malfoy's ear, then swings back again. Malfoy tugs it out of his eyes, to have it stubbornly return. He gives up. There is something in those eyes, Potter knows it, closer now, to the surface. Not yet visible. Only then does Harry notice Malfoy had turned his head to his left, so that his chin is nearly resting on his shoulder. Potter follows his gaze and sees something he has been expecting, but never really hoped to see. Grey reluctantly rises to meet green and he expects something, some kind of reaction, Harry knows.

"Did you think I'd be surprised? Did he tell you I'd be surprised? Angry, maybe?" Potter's eyes show no emotion. Malfoy is wondering, does he feel anything at all? Please, let him feel something. Malfoy needs him to feel something. Anything. This blank stare is pushing through his barrier, threatens to destroy everything Draco has lived for, everything Draco was bred to be.

"Well, _something_."

"_Well, nothing_." Harry turns away from the blonde, who smirks. Now there is something. Harry scorns him. Harry despises him. He can work with that. "You've always been one of His, Malfoy. Do you think I didn't know that? Do you think that _thing_ on your arm changes anything? Well, It's official, now. But not different." Harry wants so much to find out what is behind Malfoy's eyes, it's there hiding behind the grey shroud, taunting him, mocking him, but he's not sure he has the energy.

"I came here to kill you, to murder you, bring you to Voldemort, make it so that I was _important,_ I did something. People would've remembered my _name_, Potter, for generations."

"You're the first deatheater I've witnessed to say His name. Impressive."

"Yes, I'm so proud.." Draco says sarcastically.

"So what's your point? Why can't you kill me?" Harry wants to sleep, he's tiring of this game. Just another game. Stupid, pointless.

"I'm not sure. But it's a problem."

"A problem that isn't mine. Right then, Malfoy. I'll see you around," he goes to turn the knob on the door but suddenly there's Malfoy, blocking him. Always blocking him. "What do you want me to do! Kill _myself_ so you can take credit for something you're too cowardly to do?"

"You think I'm being a coward, do you? You think valuing life is weak?"

"It's certainly stupid, on your part. Let me through." He reaches down to his invisibility cloak and wraps it around his shoulders.

"I won't," Malfoy is trying to meet the brunette's eye, but it's rather difficult, seeing as he's invisible. Harry sneaks around to Malfoy's side.

"Move." He whispers this in Malfoy's ear, who is expecting his voice from the front. He exclaims and jumps to the side, away from Harry's voice. "Thanks," Potter smirks and reaches for the door, but Draco doesn't see anything until the knob begins to turn.

"Wait!" He grabs the doorknob but ends up grabbing Harry's invisible hand. "Will you please help me save your goddamn life?" He is looking at Potter's hand because he knows where it is. If he tried to look at Potter's face, he'd be lost. Always lost. It's not possible to look at something you can't see.

The look on Malfoy's face is pitiful. Harry wishes he could laugh at it. Right now, he can't do it. Why can't he laugh at him? He takes his hand from Malfoy, who backs against the door like a cornered mouse. His head whips around, trying to get some kind of clue. He's losing control. He's becoming lost, again. Always lost. "Are you begging me?" Potter's voice comes from the right. "A Malfoy? Actually begging /i ?" This from the left.

"Potter, stop it... You're freaking me out."

"You're freaked out? Lemme get this straight- you go to deatheater meetings, kill people daily, live with Lucius Malfoy, and you're freaked out by _me_? Besides," Harry's mouth comes so close to Draco's ear, "It's amusing..."

"What the hell do I have to do to get you to help me?" Draco pleads him. Harry almost feels sorry for him.

"Depends on what I have to do..." Harry says. He still doesn't know why Malfoy can't kill him. Did he forget that he hated him? Can one forget such things?

"You can.. you can teach me .."

"Teach you.. what? How to kill someone? Who you already happen to hate?"

"No.. Occlumency. You can teach me occlumency."

"Why the hell would I be able to teach you occlumency?"

"Snape taught you how.. now teach me."

"Bloody hell, how do you know Snape taught me occlumency?"

"I.. umm, long story. But you can teach me!"

"That won't help you learn how to kill me."

"That's beside the point."

"Oh it is? I thought it _was_ the point."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"Only if you get out of my way.." Potter's voice is tired. He's tired of thinking. He's tired of wishing, of waiting, of waking every morning. "I'm tired."

Draco moves out of his way. "Tomorrow?"

"Actually, at this point, it'd be tonight."

Malfoy looks at his watch. "Whatever.. tonight, then, at ten?" He calls to Harry who's already out the door.

"Don't be late this time." A slight shifting of the dust in the corridors is all that Draco sees of Potter's footsteps as they fade around the corner. Draco takes a deep breath and heads in the opposite direction.

_Tonight, then._


	3. III

Title: "Citrus"

Author: Kooriblue  
Aim: kooriblue  
Rating: PG13  
Category: ummm?  
Warning: HP/DM; Abused!Harry;  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all. Just keep the men in the white coats away.  
Author Notes: I know I can't write. Normally, I wouldn't even put such a horrific thing out there. It's all Jeffina's fault. Also, title has no relation to actual "lemon." Sorry. Truly, I am.  
Dedication: To Jeffina

Summary: War has an ambience of desperation and helplessness. Sometimes, when you're torn between orders and soft words, you find yourself slipping to apathy and as the ground collapses, death isn't so frightening anymore. Killing Harry Potter shouldn't be so hard for Draco Malfoy. Dying shouldn't be so easy for Harry.

* * *

Chapter Three. (In which Draco's annoyed, Harry hates cat-dust-crap, and nothing really happens) Next chapter will be more, I promise.

* * *

Pansy is telling someone about her second cousin twice removed who is actually a prince. Again. Draco wonders how many times a person can talk about the same thing to the same people without tiring of it. He wonders how those people can listen to the same thing from the same person without tiring of it. Draco personally can't stand hearing it for the 38th time. He had started counting after her sixth. He wishes somebody would say, "Shut up Pansy! You are a cunt!"

"Wow, is he really a prince?" He gives Pansy an "I'm interested" look. He half wishes she could see that he is laughing at her beneath everything. He never says what he's really feeling, Perhaps because he's a Malfoy, Perhaps because he finds it amusing, Perhaps because he is just a coward, after all. His smile falters. He looks toward Potter, chattering with his friends. He wonders if Potter is remembering last night, or if he has succeeded at forgetting about it for the moment, something Draco has been repeatedly trying to do since this morning, and utterly failing at. He sees Potter suddenly look up from his toast, meet Draco's eyes, then glance hurriedly back down again. For some unknown reason, that glance was comforting. An assurance of_ No, I haven't forgotten you, like everybody else has_. A root of something takes hold in Draco's mind. Like a weed. An ugly, obtrusive weed. Draco doesn't like it. He hates it. He hates that it makes him despise his housemates, despise the people he should be looking up to. He hates the way it seeps into his neck muscles, forcing his head to turn in Potter's direction, against his will. He hates the way it obliterates and suffocates anything else in his mind. He hates the way he wants it to grow.

He decides that he could probably breathe better if he left the room. He politely excuses himself. Always Polite. _Always assured, calm, collected._ He lets his fingers linger on Pansy's shoulder as he gets up to go. She smiles at him, with no idea that he is imagining his fingers as red-hot pokers that burn through her flesh. He gives her a half-smile. _Calm, collected. _He turns to go but cannot for the life of him stop his disobedient neck from directing his gaze once more to the Gryffindor table. He curses, and disappears through the doors. He has homework due in twelve and a half minutes.

* * *

Harry severely dislikes thinking about Malfoy. So much so that it seems to add an unpleasant residue to his day. Harry impulsively remembers Mrs. Fig, the cat lady. Thinking about Malfoy was like cleaning out eight cat litter boxes. The dust would rise up and infiltrate his nostrils, stick to the back of his throat, make him want to vomit. Think about where that dust has been. Think about all that _Crap._ He would run his tongue against the back of his teeth, feel the residue of cat-dust-crap; yes, he hates thinking about Malfoy _that much_. Yet, he can't make himself refrain from doing so. He supposes he has no one to blame but himself. Why had he agreed to meet Malfoy tonight? What had possibly overcome him to agree to _that_?

It gives him something to think about, though. Sometimes he just wants something to think about, even if it is cat-dust-crap. It's better than nothing. Even more than he hates thinking about Malfoy, he hates thinking about nothing. Nothing at all. Just fear, cold and clammy against his gut. _What is coming tomorrow? When is it all going to break me down? _He tries not to care. He tries to get tired of it, to get bored with it, but this incessant fear is always gnawing at the lining of his stomach. It helps to pretend he is bored of everything. Bored of the war. Bored of hurting. Bored of life.

He isn't bored of Malfoy yet, so he is still thinking about the slithering nuisance during Potions, his last hour of the day, and he can hardly remember what happened during care of magical creatures. Snape finds an inopportune time to inform the class of the assignment- an essay, of course. Harry groans with the rest. Then groans again when he remembers his care of magical creatures assignment- an essay. He groans again when he realizes they are both due tomorrow. He groans once more just to top it all off.

Ron ends up asking him if he's alright. Hermione ends up giving him a concerned look. Nobody asks what the fourth one was for. Harry smiles, like it is a joke.

"It's nothing. My mouth just tastes like cat-dust-crap. The jelly I ate this morning on my toast was probably expired."

They both give him a look that said, "… but that was breakfast. It's been hours.." combined with, "Cat-dust-crap? What are you talking about?" He fires back with a look that said, "Don't you ever get that taste in your mouth? No? Never mind. _You wouldn't understand.._"

Harry is glad that He, Ron, and Hermione had gotten so good at reading each other's looks; it was like they could hold entire conversations. Complicated ones, too, without saying a word. It made things simpler, easier. He never even has to make conversation. That is what he wants, isn't it? Simplicity. Easy. Boring. That _is _what he wants…


End file.
